


(A) Strange (Way to) Love or: How Dean Winchester Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Grenade Launcher

by rosie_berber



Series: An Assortment of Destiel Ficlets and Codas [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: And do other things he has wanted to for a long time, Awesome Rowena, Bisexual Dean, Coda, Dean gets to use the grenade launcher, Episode: s12e11 Regarding Dean, Fluff, M/M, Spell Reversal, With a little something extra, coda s12e11
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:28:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: A multi-part 12x11 coda because man oh man, the queer-coding on that one was something fierce. And it got me thinking about what a Dean who was a little less performative might look like.Unlike Supernatural, I will make good on my promises to not just have that grenade launcher taunting Dean.





	1. How Rowena Officially Joined Team Free Will

* * *

 

 

A mass of scarlet curls smother the spellbook. The witch has been searching for hours, and would describe her current state as nothing less than _knackered_.

 

“Entirely too many words for sheep,” she mumbles, her face still buried in the musty pages. A prolonged silence passes without interruption. No quip made at the expense of her ancestry. The witch lifts her head, met only by a set of doughy green eyes and a soft smile of the man at the other side of the room  - the sort one makes to be polite when someone’s been talking, but you haven’t understood a word.

 

The gesture is the latest scene of the still unfolding tragedy. One where it seemed impossible for the hero to have a happy ending. He could not continue to persist in a world of Post-Its. And so he waited for the witch to find the route for reversal. For Rowena to find a way to reload every burden onto the hunter’s shoulders.

 

It was in that moment that it was clear that Dean Winchester is dangerous even devoid of any weapon.

 

Because though Rowena had already confiscated his gun (none too happy that there were a few witch-killing bullets left in the chamber), the sight of the hunter in that moment hurts her in a way she thought was no longer possible.

 

Seeing Dean come apart, piece by piece - it’s an indulgence in retribution she once would have savoured. But her earlier conversation with the amnesiac hunter had been nothing less than a confession. It was true that she hadn’t been the same as of late. Not since that day when the sun was supposed to disappear from the sky and - _hadn’t_.

 

Dean Winchester was a foe, one she had once committed every atom of her being to destroy. And yet, now, Rowena finds no pleasure in the way he stumbles over words, no joy as one memory after another loses its meaning. She feels something she hadn’t felt in a century or more.

 

Pity.

 

Worse than that, the pity is paired with an even more reprehensible emotion. _Affection_. Affection towards someone who had been nothing short of a cosmic pain in the ass.

 

She pinches the bridge of her nose and dives back into the Black Grimoire, searching among the archaic glyphs for a cure.

 

\-----

 

“About bloody time!” Rowena huffs out an hour later as she finally makes it to the correct combination of Celtic characters. The hunter does not respond, his attention fully captured by a collection of gems and minerals displayed on a shelf in a locked armoire, infatuated by nothing more than how light refracted off those jagged surfaces.

 

A cruel joke - that Dean’s rescue meant to once again burden him with the weight of the world. Because in that moment, Rowena witnesses it - that part of him - no longer a Winchester, no longer a hunter, no longer tied to the damnation and salvation of human existence - that could take pleasure in the small things.

 

Something as simple as finding some piece of the earth pretty.

 

As he tilts his head to more closely inspect a piece of amethyst - the angle of the crook an unknowing imitation of his longtime celestial companion - try as she might, Rowena can’t disabuse herself of that bloody awful sentiment.

 

That it might be _nice_ to let Dean hold onto just a little bit of this.

 

She has all the necessary words to put him back in his factory-issued condition, to reinstall repression as his operating system. Able to do what the Moose has asked of her and nothing more. But that day when perennial Darkness decided to make peace with the light is as insistent in her mind as some infectious pop song that gets stuck in your head.

 

 _Haud yer wheesht!_ she castigates herself as she moves towards the man. She wouldn’t let herself give into foolish, petty, weak emotions. But Dean, he has the audacity to softly smile _again_ when she reaches up to take his face into her hands. And then he shuts his eyes, blindly trusting a woman who had tried to kill him more times than she can recall. It’s that gesture that finally pushes her over the edge. Because the witch has everything she needs, but she simply can’t stop herself from making one slight amendment. And her chant begins with the words of the Loughlin clan but concludes with an alteration all her own.

  
“Little numpty, don’t forget how to stop and smell the roses,” she whispers, caressing Dean’s cheek ever so slightly as she pulls away, just as the hunter opens his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So happy to have all my feelings about Rowena changing because of the events of 11.23 become a bit more canonically supported. I adore the whole MacLeod clan as is, but this episode gave me so many positive Rowena feels. 
> 
> And I like to think she ships it. Because yeah, I like to think everyone ships Dean and Cas.


	2. What Dean Remembers Most

* * *

 

 

As soon as Rowena gave the Celtic equivalent of _abracadabra!_  they were back. Each of the millions of memories like a homing pigeon coming back to nest among his nerve endings. The feeling of them all arriving at once - it wasn’t pleasant.

 

But it was fleeting, and soon enough, Dean was himself again.

 

Except _himself_ wasn’t as simple as he once thought. True, even his stubborn ass had changed over time, so there wasn’t some static and fixed character called Dean Winchester that was eternally true. But it was more than that.

 

The first thing Dean remembers when the spell is reversed is about what really matters. How when each piece of his carefully curated identity had been stripped away, as his sense of duty and decorum were lost, he was still himself.

 

 _Things_ mattered much less than he once thought. Because - sure - he thought there were few beers that went down as easy as El Sol, few bands as great as Zepplin. But when push came to shove, Dean didn’t fear losing those parts.

 

No, the real horrors of the curse made themselves abundantly clear in that motel bathroom in Arkansas. Where Dean demanded his mind hold onto what mattered most.

 

Sam, Mary, Cas.

His brother, his mom, his best friend.

 

_Best friend. That’s what Sam called him, so that must have been what Cas was. Why else would the angel be running through his mind so much?_

 

Dean tried to cast aside that amnesia-conceived question. But if he was being honest, it was hardly the first time he had considered it. The thing was - Dean had never had a best friend, and Cas truly was his. He’d long since resolved there was not another being on Earth with whom he’d ever feel so close. They’d been through Heaven and Hell (and then some) together, seen each other at their worst and refused to walk away. There was no one else - not even Sam - who understood him like Cas did. Getting the highlight reel of their near decade together reminded him as much.

 

Rowena had reinstated every memory, every blow landed and drop of blood shed. But none hurt so much as the one where their names - Sam, Mary, Cas - began to lose their meaning. The hunter winces within that old estate as he recalls how desperately he clung to the last memories with every ounce of strength he could muster.

 

The sound of fireworks exploding across the sky over an empty field.

The sound of his mother’s voice singing along to “Hey Jude” as he drifted off to sleep.

The sound of the most important five words that had ever been said to him.

 

 _I could go with you_.

 

How he had lost everything - names, meaning, context - except the feelings of love towards his brother, his mother and his angel.

 

The play by play only comes to an end when a finger makes contact with the tip of Dean’s nose. Rowena’s signature _boop_ an unknowing act of mercy saving him from his latest existential crisis.

 

“All patched up? Did I manage to put Humpty Dumpty together again?” she asks, peering up at him.

 

Instinctively the hunter braces himself. It wasn’t an entirely foolish move, considering their history of going from allies to adversaries without so much as a wardrobe change. He moves for his gun only to find an empty waistband awaiting him.

 

“Touched by your gratitude,” the witch chides as she hands the hunter an unloaded gun. The bullets - they were her commission.

 

Dean smirks. “Can’t blame me for having my guard up. You know, given the number of times you’ve tried to kill me and all.”

 

Rowena rolls her eyes. “Oh hush, it’s been years since I’ve tried to kill you.”

 

“Yeah well, you can’t blame me if I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Witch. Related to Crowley. Nothing personal, but --- I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you. Of course, in your case that’d be clear across this room,” Dean retorts, feeling his sense of sarcasm reloading as well. “On account of you being tiny and all.”

 

“You know, Dean Winchester, guid gear comes in sma' bulk,” Rowena huffs out, hands on her hips as if to say that her size was no impediment to giving him a swift kick in the arse.

 

“No offense Natasha. You are still one scary bitch. And I will still put you and your son down as soon as you give me a reason to,” Dean responds.

 

“Oh, you’re all bum and parsley. You very well know you don’t have it in yer heart to harm a hair on mine or Fergus’s heads. Especially mine, seeing as you like how _bouncy_ it is.” The witch flashes him a smile that - despite her being on the good guys’ side as of late - still shows there’s a sinister side ready to pounce.

 

For a second, Dean starts to think of a way to deny her accusation. But the truth was, it’d been quite some time since he’d harboured any ill will towards her, or Crowley for that matter. Maybe it was a side effect of the amnesia, but he’s too tired to posture right now.

 

“You’re right,” he admits, a lot less ashamed than he had expected. He moves towards Rowena - not to strike, but to express his sincere appreciation. Pulling her tiny frame into his arms, whispering “thanks” into her hair.

 

For a moment, Rowena lets herself rest her head on the hunter’s chest. For the first time she is happy to hear his heart still beating.

 

But only for a moment. Because sentiment had always been more obstacle than asset.

 

“Don’t get all soft on me now Winchester. Nice guys don’t seem to last very long in our world.”

Dean chuckles softly, then clears his throat. “Don’t worry your pretty little head. I’m just as much of a dick as ever.”

 

“Promise?”

 

“Promise.”

 

“In that case, why don’t we play a wee prank on Moose together? Give the Giant a good scare? He deserves as much, what, with how he’s been bossing me around.”

 

The most important thing to Dean was his relationships. With his angel, his mom, and his gullible little brother.

  
“Little lady, you got yourself a deal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man, do I have feelings and thoughts that are quite complicated about what was going through Dean's head during that bathroom scene. Suffice it to say - that episode was heavily queer-coded and I think Dean - at face value - agrees with Sam that Castiel is his "best friend." But just because he's his best friend doesn't mean he's not also something else to Dean. I will never get over his voice cracking during the Cas part. I'm such trash.


	3. Dean Gets the Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second most important yes Dean could get.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last week was one of the busiest in my life. So I had this chapter three quarters of the way written and was ready to post.
> 
> And then 12x12 happened and I sort of stopped caring about anything besides it since.
> 
> So it's hard to post this because of EVERYTHING THAT HAPPENED in 12x12, but just imagine this all happened first, okay? Or something. I don't know, nothing feels like it matters now that Cas CANONICALLY said I love you.

_ “No.”  _ The word comes out of Sam’s mouth gruff and absolute. Dean should let it go.

 

Dean does not let it go. 

 

Instead, he turns the radio of the Impala down to a hush, determined to crack Sam. “Come on, there’s got to still be part of you that can take a joke. Admit to the truth. That I’m hilarious and you - you are just pouting because you fell for it.”

 

The younger Winchester ends the staring contest he was having with his cell phone, shifting in the passenger seat, turning towards his insistent brother. He speaks clearly and concisely - in that tone that showed you could take the man out of law school, but the lawyer inside him still lingered. 

 

“You have a sick sense of humour, you know that? I’m trapped in some sort of  _ Notebook  _ hell where I’m watching you fade away and you - you think it’s funny?”

 

Dean pauses, drumming his finger on the steering wheel. “We talking movie or book?”

Sam’s eyebrows dart down and his nose scrunches up. A look that could only be described as total bewilderment flashes across his features.

 

“Who the hell are you and what have you done with my brother?”

 

\-----

 

_ “No. _ ” The gruff response comes from another grizzled hunter in between bites of a gargantuan burger. Before Mick can begin his rebuttal, his companion’s phone begins to vibrate loudly on the formica tabletop, its reverberations a welcomed reprieve from the standoff.

 

Mary excuses herself to take the call, stepping out from the diner to the streets of Topeka. She’s been playing phone tag with Sam for the better part of two hours. Hearing his voice - knowing he’s okay - it’s a relief.

 

“Hi mom.” The greeting sounds less nervous - less rehearsed each time she hears it.

 

“Hey sweetie.”

 

Sam doesn’t wait on pleasantries, launching right into his purpose. 

 

“I’m calling because - I just wanted to let you know - Dean - he’s back. To normal. Or … whatever  _ his version _ of normal is.”

 

Mary makes sure to turn her back to the Man of Letters and their potential recruit as she exhales a breath no longer distressed, as she lets herself enjoy a small smile.

 

“Well that’s a relief. Because I couldn’t have forgiven myself - I still wasn’t sure I shouldn’t jump in a beater and come down there as soon as I could.” As the words leave her mouth, Mary knows - on a visceral level - that it is actually true. It’s a feeling that is certain and reassuring. But not one she lets herself linger in too long. “The witch - she helped you? Without any conditions of her own?”

 

Sam lets out a sigh just a tad dramatic. “Just that we owe her one. I’m sure I’ll find the strings soon enough.”

 

Mary softly smirks into her phone’s receiver. “Well --- your brother’s better. I suppose that’s all that matters now.”

 

A few seconds of silence pass between mother and son who still haven’t gotten this whole extended conversation thing down just yet. Mary relies on a tried and trued topic to break through the awkward silence.

 

“Listen - a couple of hunters in Wichita have gone missing.”

 

“What do you think it is?” Sam asks, perhaps a bit too eagerly.

 

“Thinking djinn,” she responds, as if that is a perfectly normal thing for a mother to say to her fully-grown son.

 

But it was normal for them. Family business and all. “Need help?”

 

Mary turns back towards the window, noticing that the plaid-clad man has fully abandoned the pretense of this being anything more than a free lunch on the Brit. The past week she’s spent with him - it hasn’t been as successful as either had hoped. Eight no’s, three fuck off’s and one non-committal maybe. Rejection after rejection - perhaps their course needed to be altered.

 

“We’re actually meeting with hunters local to the area now. They don’t seem too impressed by me and Mr. Davies. A bit of star power couldn’t hurt.”

 

She can’t see it, but she knows Sam’s blushing. Half-embarrassed, half-proud as hell his mom thinks so highly of him. It’s obvious because she can no sooner make the offer than Sam insists that after some grub and gas, they’d be on their way.

 

\-----

_ No _ , he tells himself, looking at the Twizzlers.  _ He’s already pissed about the fakeout - no need to earn another dose of bitchface because you buy the wrong snack. _ And yet, Dean’s hands seem to have a mind of their own, taking the red licorice goodness into their grasp. 

 

With a cocky smirk Dean heads off to the checkout line, to pay for the tank of gas and the latest source of Sam’s angst. The guy ahead of him has an absolutely zonked out toddler slung over his shoulder. 

 

Dean thinks it’s cute. When the thought passes through his head, he doesn’t shoo it away.

 

After he’s handed over the money for the fuel for his Baby and himself he steps outside the gas station and sits on a bench, waiting for Sammy to return from wherever the hell he stepped off to. He’s midway through his first bite when he sees it. An ancient relic right there in the middle of nowhere, Arkansas.

 

A payphone.

 

_ It’d be nice to hear his voice _ , Dean thinks. The thought is accompanied by a hand that slips into the pocket of his jeans, fishing out a few quarters in order to connect. His fingers punching the memorized number into the keypad.

 

He thinks of his face through each dialtone. Trying to commit the hue of his eyes and the shape of his jaw to some part of his mind where it would be safe forever.

 

And then the rings stop, and that gravelly voice emerges.

 

“Hello?” the voice asks curiously.

 

“Hey Cas.”

 

A pause.

 

“Hello Dean.”

 

The hunter gives the reader’s digest version of his last day or so. Castiel seems quite annoyed with Sam, who seemed to have downplayed the severity of the situation. It turned out his brother had told Cas “everything was under control” and that he should keep on Kelly’s trail. Dean keeps up the charade.

 

“Touch and go there for a minute but I’m good now. How’s Montana?”

 

“The lead - it was a dead end. I’m on my way back towards the bunker now. Maybe if I hit the books again - there will be something in the lore - some sort of location spell…” Cas trails off into a whole lot of hypotheticals uninterrupted - just like he had during that werepire case. Except this time - Dean’s not otherwise occupied, not fighting some monster who got the drop on him. No, Dean is just fully, entirely engrossed in this moment - in hearing Castiel’s voice and knowing it is his. Detailing every little thing - the way in which he rushes from one possibility to the next, the cadence of the questions he’s asking himself. Smiling an altogether too goofy grin when the angel abruptly stops to check if he’s still there.

 

“I’m with you buddy.”

 

Dean means it with every fiber of his being.

 

\-----

 

“No way,” the rugged man mutters as the Impala pulls into the motel’s parking lot. 

 

“Yes,” Mary responds firmly as she waves towards her sons. “Those are my boys. Two of them, anyway.”

 

The hunter hands her a crisp twenty without protest, seemingly in awe that the Winchesters were, in fact, real.

 

“Might want to pick your jaw up. They don’t take too well to the starstruck,” she says deadpan, walking over to the now stationary vehicle.

 

Sam hugs her first, then Dean. “Missed you,” she whispers into her oldest’s ear. 

 

_ Me too _ , Dean thinks.  _ In ways you can’t imagine. _

 

Mick clears his throat a minute into the reunion. It’s strange - Dean has gotten so used to their reluctant bedfellows being demons and witches and yes, even Satan himself, that he waits for snark, for an insult to land. When it doesn’t come - it’s a reminder that the Man of Letters might just have a bit of his soul left after all.

  
  


 

 

The caravan - Mary and Mick, Sam and Dean, a hunter called Andrew - it arrives outside the warehouse at dusk. Because hunting during daylight? Where was the fun in that.

 

Mick and Dean open the trunks to their respective vehicles in unison, each admiring the other’s collection. Davies points to some Djinn specific weaponry and ammunition.

 

“What are those?” Dean asks, more for confirmation than out of confusion.

 

“Ah, yes. Thought you’d get a kick out of these. Exterior is a steel and silver alloy. Lamb’s blood laced within the explosive. Highly effective.”

 

Dean pauses for a moment. He’s been here before - asked the question and been met with no, time and time again.

 

Except this time, no one is shaking their head. No one’s saying no, nein, Нет. No written condemnations either.

 

Just an impeccably dressed man asking him something he’s longed for so long. 

 

“Would you like to do the honours?”

 

Dean runs his fingers over them, one by one, as if they were the most precious gift in the world. Turning to Sam for final confirmation - overjoyed by his brother’s silent nod.

  
And so Dean locks and loads the launcher, with a _yes_ many years in the making.


	4. All Dean's Been Waiting For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grenades are launched and smooches are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhh! I just realized I never posted this. I hope belated is better than never?

* * *

 

The small stream of light cast from Sam’s flashlight painted a path for the makeshift strike team through the labyrinth of a warehouse. Djinn - their powers, their methods - they were one of those rare monsters that still got under Dean’s skin. And so he had insisted they all stick together - that splitting up would work to their adversary’s advantage, not theirs. The rest of the hunters acquiesced without a word protested. Ten soles deliberately treading, winding their way through one dank hallway after another, seeking out the concealed djinn. 

 

Even when they were young, the Winchesters weren’t ones to play hide and seek. Sam had asked once - when he was three or four - to play the childhood staple during a particularly dull stay at a motel in Missouri. Dean’s response came in the form of a list of monsters that preyed on lone children. It was an answer born out of love, a fierce desire to protect Sammy at all costs. Didn’t mean it didn’t give Sam nightmares for a straight week.

 

Dean wishes Rowena hadn’t restored that particular memory. Because even now - even after all these years - he can still hear the echoes of Sammy’s midnight screams. Like some god forsaken score to the single file and silent march of the hunters. Dean swears his memories are getting the better of him until he catches his mom’s expression illuminated by the beam of light curving around yet another corner.

 

She heard it too.

 

And then it happens again - a beleaguered groan resounding off the concrete walls, like a honing signal for the hunters. Their feet shuffle quickly towards the origin - careful, cautious, and fully clear that they could very well be running towards a trap laid by the djinn.

 

But the night was not cursed - for the unlikely comrades in arms quickly found two hunters bound to steel posts near the warehouse’s center. Mary and Sam lose little time before their blades slice through rope. Mick and Andrew serve as lieutenants of sorts, each pairing with a Winchester to hoist the still unconscious victims from the ground.

 

The dead weight makes their retreat slower than any of them would like, Dean most of all. Especially after another sound cuts through the still air - the heavy clod of feet approaching in the distance.

 

Quick glances of concern are exchanged amongst the Winchesters before Dean takes action. His weapon locked, loaded and ready to be fired, Dean gives his command.

“What are you waiting for? Get the hell out of here.” He taps the steel resting upon his shoulder. “I’ve got this.”

 

There’s no time to argue. The rest of the team stumbles out an emergency exit to get the victims out of harm’s way. Dean, meanwhile, stands squarely in harm’s way; moonlight makes its way through the small window above the steel door in front of which Dean stood guard.

 

The moonlight casts itself on the body of the djinn, giving Dean enough light to notice the tattoos swirled across its form. Slowly, deliberately, the creature made its way towards him. Dean raises the grenade launcher in rebuttal. The djinn tilted his head in confusion at the hunter’s weapon of choice. It’s a look  Dean can’t afford to bear - it just looks wrong on anyone but  _ him. _

 

“What’s about to happen,” Dean shouts towards the steadily approaching monster, “this right here - I want you to know, it’s something special. Been waiting for quite some time to do this.”

 

Dean’s braces his back against the exit, pushing on the bar with all his weight as his finger presses down on the trigger. The last thing he sees before he hits pavement is the grenade puncturing the djinn’s gut.

 

An entire row of the building’s upper floor windows shatter in unison.

 

The only sound that accompanies it is a truly joyful laugh bellowing from the hunter, lying prostrate on the ground.

 

After the last shard of glass hits the ground, Dean opens his eyes to see Sam hovering over him, a hand outstretched to help him back to his feet. Dean breathes heavily - not yet ready to let his feet hit the ground.

 

“All you’ve been waiting for?” Sam asks. 

 

Dean’s grin stretched ear to ear is an unmistakeable yes.

  
  


* * *

 

It was past 2 AM by the time the hunters made it back to the motel. Mary and Mick had made it clear they intended to stay on in Wichita for a week more - to tend to the ailing hunters (who had agreed to join them as a token of their gratitude). Sam too stayed behind, lured by Mick’s promise that they could spend a few days on R&D for more hybrid weapons.

 

But the adrenaline of the night’s hunt has got Dean craving everything but sleep - and so he hits the road, solo. Back towards the bunker, finally satiated by a long denied desire.

 

Well,  _ that _ long denied desire, at least.

 

Because in the wake of firing the grenade launcher it hit Dean - he’d let fear of disappointing others dictate what he would and would not do far too much in his thirty something years walking Chuck’s green earth. The weapon - it was one small example of that. There were other parts of Dean - things he tried to deny, disassociate, dress up as anything other than what they plainly were - he was no longer worried about keeping hidden.

 

All the books he’d read in high school even though he’d knew he’d be gone before the final papers were due. How  _ Jane Eyre  _ and  _ Pride and Prejudice  _ were among his favourites - even if he’d never quote them in public.

 

How he would sometimes buy things from a market or store - a pot of flowers here, a candle there - only to throw them in the trash before getting home, afraid of what someone else would say.

 

How he’d spent damn near his whole life performing a version of himself that had becoming increasingly tiring with every passing year. A version of himself that seemed too much like artiface now.

 

How part of that performance was convincing himself - every morning, afternoon and night - that he wasn’t in love with Castiel, angel of the Lord.

 

How that was a lie.

 

A pretense he no longer felt like keeping up.

 

Because nearly losing them - nearly losing him - before Dean could tell him how he felt - how he really felt, without needing to retreat to the comfortable territory of best friend and brother - it had ignited something within Dean.

 

Something that doesn’t burn out once the Impala’s in park in the safety of the bunker’s garage. Something that moves Dean every step of the way through that underground home - every step closer to him.

 

When Dean sees Cas - sitting on the couch, his nose wedged inside a book on Mesopotamian mythology - it’s as if he’s seeing him now through new eyes, unencumbered by whatever has held him back all these years.

 

Cas barely manages to get a “Hello Dean” out of his mouth before Dean comes crashing down on him - his hands resting firmly on Castiel’s cheeks as kisses the angel - the connection firm and unwavering. When the contact finally breaks, Dean smirks as he takes in the angel’s bewilderment. Cas can’t find the words, so he settles for one.

 

“Why?” he asks, averting Dean’s gaze, as if half-convinced this all must be some cruel joke being played upon him.

 

Dean smiles softly. “Been waiting quite some time to do that.” His thumb grazes the height of Castiel’s rough cheekbones. “All I’d been waiting for ... “ Dean pauses just long enough to press a chaste kiss to Castiel’s forehead. “...And more,” he finishes.

 

Castiel inhales a steady breath before meeting Dean’s line of sight. Cradling his hands on the back of Dean’s neck, he pulls his face down towards his own - close enough that their noses touch, their warm breath collecting on each others’ lips. His hand traces some path only he knows down Dean’s neck, landing on his chest, his fingers tapping across the space that concealed Dean’s heart from him.

  
“And more…” Dean manages to mumble out before he loses himself - in the best way possible - to a night of exploration nearly ten years in the making.


End file.
